i'll be your phonograph
by jonimitchell
Summary: "Where is your heart, Finn?" AU.


**hipster fic that got a little more than away from me. enjoy!  
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He tilts his head back slightly, eyes falling into half slits, peering through the thick smoke of the bar. His fingers splay over the hard wood of the countertop, scanning scanning scanning the hazy room. He's looking to bum a cigarette off someone, fingers itching to clasp the white apparatus, lungs looking to fill with smoke.

He's not addicted—he's not. Sometimes he just needs to unwind a little, crack the spine on his Kerouac anthology and hole up in a corner, cigarette pursed between his lips. Groaning, no one catches his eye, from the big guy leaning against the counter a few stools down to the thin guy with coiffed hair at the end of the bar, picking at his nails and looking artfully bored.

Finally, his eyes zero in on a girl at the very corner of the room, tucked against the wall in a way he's only used to in himself. He stalks over to her before even getting a good look at her. Upon closer inspection, he notes her right hand moving furiously over what looks like a journal, and as he slides into the cushy seat across from her. Her head snaps up, pen stilling on the ivory toned pages, a surprised gasp leaving her lips as he plucks her cigarette right from her mouth. A groan of satisfaction erupts from his throat as he inhales slowly.

Her eyes bore into his, narrowing ever so slightly as he taps the cigarette into an ashtray. She certainly is another kind of beautiful, big brown eyes outlined in a thick band of eyeliner tapering off at the corners, long, thick brown hair with heavy bangs, and pretty rose lips that he just hawked a cigarette off of.

She purses those lips and takes her cigarette back. "What's your name?"

His eyes finally move from her face, scrutinizing her petite form, hunched in a leather jacket and floral dress. "Finn Hudson."

"Rachel Berry." He smiles, grasps her fingers between his and presses his lips to her knuckles. A slight blush rises on her cheeks and she tugs her hand away from his. "Kerouac?"

Lifting an eyebrow, he gestures to her Moleskin journal, "Diary?"

Her brows furrow in a tight line, "_No_. Just some writing."

"So it _is_ your diary."

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple," she says, scooting back in her chair and standing. Her hands scramble to gather all her belongings, three thick books as well as multiple journals, stuffing them into a floral knapsack that she slides onto her shoulders. "When you figure out who said that quote, find me."

She presses a piece of paper beneath the glass on the table, squeezes his wrist, and flounces away, tossing her long hair behind her as she goes.

_ii_.

_Kerouac_, of course, as he's walking out of the bar into the chilly November air. He sighs, catching a glimpse of the clock on his iPhone, reading half past one in the morning, and he's working tomorrow, his day job at a small publishing company, followed by an additional shift at the record store a block from his apartment.

His mind strays to Rachel (again) as he pushes through the entryway of the record store, captivated by his memory of the feel of her skin on his lips and the shining of her eyes as she walked away. So caught up in his memories, he doesn't notice the record laid out on the counter top before him, nor the real life girl in front of him. "Oh, you! Hi, Finn!"

That certainly snaps him out of his daze, and he smiles, "Kerouac."

"Hmm?"

"The quote—Kerouac." She grins widely, all teeth and shining eyes, and today her hair's in a plait on the back of her head, loose strands and heavy fringe falling from the elastic, and she's wearing this high-waisted black skirt with a pretty pink v-cut blouse tucked into it, beige cardigan tossed over her shoulders, and _God_, she's so, so, so lovely.

"Um, Finn?"

"Huh?"

"I would like to buy this vinyl," she says, smiling widely and pressing her fingers over the cellophane cover.

He nods, pursing his lips as he takes it from her hands, familiarly groping for the scanner as he flips the record in his hands. "_Bon Iver_, huh?"

Her eyebrows draw in a tight line, "Yes, of course." His nose scrunches, and she holds up a hand. "Stop, stop."

"Rachel, they were featured in the latest _Twilight_ film."

"How do you know that?" She raises her eyebrow and thrusts her credit card at him.

"Touché," he mutters. Her lips stretch in a triumphant grin as he bags her purchase and hands her the card, palms brushing as he presses the thin plastic into her hand.

"You haven't really listened to music until you've heard 'Holocene'," she says, leaning her elbows on the counter, still grinning that pretty half moon, teeth bright and beautiful, lips rose red and lovely, and he _really_ needs to get over them. "If you're ever free and looking to listen to some good music, you have my number."

And with a coquette smile, she turns on her heel and walks out of the shop.

_iii_.

He's a little more than enamored with her. And for the record, he doesn't believe in that love at first sight bullshit, besides, he's not looking for a relationship with her, maybe a few drunk hookups, but nothing more, simply because he doesn't have time for a girlfriend. He's content with his friends, nights in a smoky bar reading literature, and, plus, working two jobs doesn't quite allow time for a girlfriend.

That doesn't exactly explain why he finds himself traipsing down the streets of Brooklyn, squinting his eyes at the screen of his phone and back to the row of townhouses, searching for the right number and he finally finds it, Christmas lights still strung in the windows.

She smiles when she pulls open the door and grasps his gloved hand in hers, tugging him behind her. "D'you live here alone?"

"Mhm," she hums, fingers still clasped around his wrist and he ignores how his heart thuds from the way her fingers press against his pulse point. "My record player's in my room."

She burns some incense, cracks open the window in her room, and places the record in the player. He isn't quite sure what to do, sit on the big, white bed pushed against the walls, or sit beside her on the floor. She crooks her finger, so he lowers himself to the floor beside her.

He's surprised when she curls beside him, lifting his arm so she can lie beneath it. "What'd I tell you?"

"Huh?"

"This song," she sighs peacefully, leaning her head on his shoulder, "isn't it everything you could ever want in a song?"

He licks his lips, 'cause to be honest; he isn't really listening to the song. He's trying to bring his mind elsewhere, instead of focusing on the curve of her hip on his. "Uh, yeah, 'course."

She smiles and hooks his raised leg with hers, wool sock-clad toes stroking up and down his calf. He turns, eyes meeting hers, and it's really a subconscious act as he leans down and presses his mouth against hers.

His ribs ache, his arm is numbing, but he isn't really thinking about _that_ as she grasps his face. He isn't really thinking of anything, like how he barely knows this girl, as he rolls them and presses her back into the ground.

"D'you want to?" She inquires as her fingers trace precariously along the waist of his jeans. He's already pushed her sweater up and over her head, and does she really even need an answer? Like, _obviously_, he wants to, so he kisses her again to reiterate that thought.

_iv_.

Finn doesn't do cuddling. He's missing that gene, always has. His mother used to grumble and whine for hours when he was younger and preferred to spend his time alone rather than cuddling with her on the couch, watching some lame television show or film. He loves his mom, but he is _not_ a momma's boy.

Somehow, though, after their tryst on the floor, he finds himself curling his body around Rachel's. They've moved to the bed, Bon Iver record long forgotten in the record player. He fiddles with her hair, twirling the strands in between his fingers, and _fuckfuckfuck_ he isn't supposed to do that, either, and he isn't going to change just because some pretty girl completely enchanted him.

It's just an infatuation, he reminds himself as he rolls out of her bed, and it's nearly four in the morning and he wants nothing more than to climb back in and like, marry her, and have babies with her and grow old but it's those kinds of thoughts that propel him out the door, no note or kiss goodbye or anything.

He doesn't _do_ relationships. He won't.

_v_.

Most girls get pissed and chase after him when he humps and dumps. It shouldn't surprise him so much that Rachel is different. She doesn't come to his work, lurk in the bars he frequents, or even call. She doesn't call _once_. No text messages or emails, and he knows that if he were lame enough to have a Facebook, she wouldn't post anything there.

The best option, he figures, is to put her out of mind. And he does just that, as he does his work and writes his music in the evenings, fingers strumming a hopeful tune on his guitar to no fruition. He's got no muse. He wishes he knew anything about her so he could find her – other than at her house, of course. He doesn't want to be tempted into doing her again, just wants a tentative friendship.

Regardless, he's delighted when he recognizes the curve of her back in a bookstore a month after the last time he's seen her. Her head is bent, long dark hair falling in a curtain around her shoulders, eyes scanning a book. Much to his chagrin, his heart beats just a little faster when he sees her, fingers itching to wrap around her waist and press close to her and yeah, okay, those are total love-y thoughts but it's only 'cause he hasn't interacted with many females since he last saw her.

His lips find her name before his brain really processes the thought, voice blaring stark against the quiet hum of the bookstore. Her head snaps up, dark eyes confused until she spots him. He expects her to march up to him and slap him, or maybe for her to turn on her heel and sprint out of the store, thick book left forlornly on the ground.

Again, she doesn't do the expected. She _does_ march up to him, brown boots thudding against the carpeted floor in time with his heartbeat against his ribcage, but rather than slap him, she places her hand on his shoulder and stands on her tiptoes to kiss him on the mouth.

"Hello, Finn," she says, smiling when they part. "Long time no see. How've you been?"

"Fine," he blurts. She grins, lifts her hand to his cheek again and wipes what must be the residue from her lipstick off his mouth.

"I'm glad." He wants to kiss her again. So, naturally, he does, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her again, nose brushing against hers as a generic classical song blares over the loudspeakers in the bookstore.

She tastes like coffee and lipstick and old books even though he knows that's just the smell of the store around them, and yeah, he really likes kissing her, likes the way her fingers squeeze the collar of his shirt or sweater or the lapels of his coat, likes the constellations behind his eyelids as he kisses her and it's so much more than fireworks, it's like lying on dewy grass in the middle of the summer and listening to the cricket's symphony, feeling like everything in the universe is pressing down on him but at the same time filling him with an imperceptible lightness and it's perfect.

They break away and she brushes her nose against his scruffy, unshaved chin, smile pulling her lips. He doesn't say anything, but she squeezes his face, plies herself from his embrace, and clambers to the front of the store.

_vi_.

One of the guys from the record shop invites him out to drinks one night, at this smoky bar a block or so down the street. It's one of the only bars he doesn't frequent, so he's a little more than skeptical when he walks through the door pasted with a sign reading _karaoke night_. "Really?"

Mike, the guy who invited him, elbows Finn in the side hard. "Listen, man, there's this chick I know who comes here every week for karaoke night, so –"

"So you've been coming here for six months?"

"Pretty much, and it's a kind of cool place."

Finn shakes his head and lowers himself into the beaten armchair in the corner of the bar. It doesn't seem all that bad. In fact, he finds himself enjoying the night, sipping a mug of black coffee before Mike coaxes him into throwing back a shot of vodka.

The bell above the door jingles, and he glances up just in time to see Rachel—_his Rachel_—waltz in, arm linked with some guy. She catches his stare and waves enthusiastically, stands a little on the tiptoes of her brown leather boots, and whisper's in the guy's ear.

"Finn!" She hops onto his lap and squeezes his shoulders, and it's been so long since he's seen her, two turns of the calendar and melting snow running liquid down the streets, and he can't really help himself from pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"Hi, Rachel," he says, smiling, fingers smoothing the hem of her navy skirt and resting on her thighs. _God_, he misses her.

He should tell her. But instead, she kisses a symphony on his forehead, music surging through his body from the delicate touch, and he thinks he really kind of wants her. He doesn't tell her. She hops off his legs, smoothes her threadbare plum sweater, and walks back to that guy, who, after a little inspection, must be gay. 'Cause how can you sit with Rachel and not kiss her and rub her arms and tuck her under your arm? She's so—so everything.

He leans his head back, knocking it against the top of the chair he's sitting in, and doesn't lift it until he hears cheering and clapping and _that voice_, "Tonight, I'm gonna sing," she giggles a little, looking at the guy she came with (Finn could totally wreck him), "some Joni Mitchell."

There are some hollers and like, he didn't even know she sang, but as she begins to sing, he can't believe there are any other voices. Finn knows music, he studies it, he writes it, he makes it, and Rachel is paramount. Would she mind if he recorded her on his phone and listened to it as he fell asleep every night?

Her voice just _touches_ something in him, cracks open his chest and swings through his sternum, wrapping around his heart and squeezing just a little, and _god_, it makes its home there, wiping out anything else so that his heart thuds a steady beat _RachelRachelRachel_.

The music fades out, her voice holding the final note, and she smiles humbly at the applause. Of course, she catches his eye, he crooks his finger at her, and pulls her onto his lap once more. "Did you—"

He shakes his head, and she curls her fingers in his shirt, pressing against his collarbone, and she finishes her question against the skin of his neck. He responds against her skin as well, breathing the answer into her pores, and wonders if she'd mind if he stayed here forever.

That thought, of course, shocks him to his core, twists his insides, and forces him to pull away from her with a tight-lipped smile. Somehow, she understands his reluctance, presses her mouth against his, and flounces away.

_vii_.

She calls him a week later. He's walking home from work, spring tugging at March's heavy legs, and it's just beginning to warm. "_I miss you_!"

He imagines her saying it, stretched across her bed on her stomach, ankles crossed in the air. He plucks a cigarette out of the pack in his coat pocket, pursing his lips around the cylindrical apparatus. "Come visit me?"

She sighs, he blows out a ring of smoke, "_I can't possibly leave Atticus_!"

"As in Finch?"

Laughing, "_As in my cat! You met him!_"

He doesn't remember a cat, only remembers her smooth skin beneath his calloused fingertips, her soft whimper in his ear as he kissed her all over and—"Oh, right, uh."

"_Maybe tomorrow? Dinner?_"

"I'll pick you up at seven thirty."

_viii_.

He kisses her cheek in greeting, and she loops her arm through his, head leaning against his bicep. "Where are we going?"

"Just a little café a few blocks down." She hums in response, cheeks wind-bitten pink from the cool March gales. "Rach," he's never given a girl (or anyone) a nickname before, "d'you realize we don't know one another very well?"

"Of course we do!" Her voice is high, much more than flabbergasted. "I know that you prefer pomegranate incense to wild berry, and that you love the Shins and hate Vampire Weekend and you regret that you know every word to 'Photograph' by Nickelback."

He laughs, it's all true, of course. "Yes, you do know quite a bit about me, but Rachel, there is so little that _I _know about _you_."

"Isn't it more exciting this way?"

"What?"

"Our friendship! I'm—I'm like an onion, y'know, you have to peel me back layer by layer!"

"Do you—" He laughs, "You do realize how cheesy that was?"

"Yes," she agrees solemnly, "but what's life without a little cheese?"

He wonders if she knows what she's doing to him, knows that his heart beats ten times faster when she's around no matter how much time he spends attempting to slow it. Does she know how desperately he wants to call her his girl, his honey, his lady?

But at the same time, another part of him, a bigger part, maybe, doesn't want any of that, wants to keep himself as far from her as possible because the scars etched onto his heart haven't quite healed yet. He's a little afraid, though, that she has the right tools to help him heal.

He shakes his head, wiping his paradoxical thoughts from his mind, "So, Rachel, what do you do?"

"I can't spill _all_ my secrets, now, can I, Finn?"

He grunts, tilting his head back in frustration, "_Please_!"

"I am an actress."

"A starving artist, then? How New York of you," he teases, hanging his arm around her shoulders and tugging her into his side.

"_No_," she refutes, "I am an actress on Broadway."

"Broadway? Musicals?" He glances down at her from the corner of his eye, ankle-high lace socks and Oxford shoes, high-necked dress and big cardigan and can't exactly picture her singing on Broadway.

"Yes, sir!"

"How'd you get into that?" They're at the restaurant now, and as they're seated she regales him with tales of her two dads and how they raised her to be the star she is now. It makes him smile, her enthusiasm, hands punctuating her important points.

He walks her home and reminds himself that this is not a date as they stand on the stoop in front of her house, her finger hooked over his, swinging slightly between their bodies. He leans down and brushes his lips over hers very gently. "Finn?"

"Hmm?" He leans his forehead against hers for a moment.

"Are we—are we friends?"

"Of course."

She beams. "Perfect."

_ix_.

Friends. He's never had a female friend before that he wasn't also having sex with and or dating. Although, he isn't so sure that friends kiss hello and goodbye or even a _you're so funny _kiss smacked against his cheek after retelling a particularly entertaining story.

They do that a lot—sit on his fire escape and share stories. Sometimes, she makes them up on the fly, spinning a story like a loom into the night, fingers tracing circles on his thigh as he smokes a cigarette. She scrunches her nose when he smokes these days. She's quitting, she declares liberally, and he should, too. Something about secondhand smoke. He doesn't smoke much regardless, mostly socially, but he'll stop for her.

Sometimes, though, they share a cigarette late in the night, her shoulders wrapped in a thin cardigan as April pulls life from winter's dead ground. This is what happiness is, he decides, shoulders knocking against hers as the wind picks up around them, ruffling her long hair.

"Where is your heart, Finn?"

"Huh?"

"Your heart," she repeats, turning slightly so she's facing him. A shadow crosses her face as a cloud crosses the moon.

"Right here, silly," he says, grasping her fingers and placing it over his chest, where his heart thuds her metronome.

"No, no," she shakes her head and he knows that she knows that he is being intentionally dense. "I mean, like, where is your _heart_, y'know?"

"Not really." He feels himself freeze up. He hates when he does this.

She does too, sigh escaping her lips, and with a glance at her watch, she kisses him softly in the moonlight and leaves. He watches her back as she gathers her purse and raincoat, eyes still trained on her as she retreats from his apartment, and then again moments later as she walks down the street.

_x_.

Rachel is not clingy. She doesn't call him everyday, text him constantly, or beg him to go out with her every night. He likes that about her, he decides.

"I'm seeing someone," she tells him, smiling slightly and sipping her coffee.

"What?" She rolls her eyes. "Who?"

"A friend of a friend."

"Seeing as in exclusively?"

She shrugs and purses her lips. "Maybe."

"Well," he's stumped, "what about me?"

"What about you?" Why does his heart feel like this?

"I—I don't know."

She leans across the small table and squeezes his face. "Don't worry, Finn. You will always be my best friend! I'll always have room for you." He bites his bottom lip. "And a kiss or too, even." She's smiling.

"Uh—"

He's sort of speechless, fingers finding a stray thread on his sweater and tearing it, then running his fingers over the thread. He isn't sure why he feels like this. It feels like he's lost everything, and the inkling of _that feeling_ with her sparks in his throat and settles in his stomach and it becomes a permanent part of him, still imperceptible to him, though.

For now, he figures he ate something bad, didn't get enough sleep, had a bad day at work. He ignores the obvious signs and focuses, instead, on other things, like her hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of her neck and the necklace that sits at the hollow of her throat, a gold chain and ivory pendant with what looks like a rose painted on. It's surely vintage, from the way her small hands reach up to grasp it and fiddle with it as she speaks, mouth nearly moving too fast for her words as they spew out.

He wants to kiss the spot where it rests, wants to trace the entire world on her collarbones, stuck out beneath her dress. "You're beautiful, you know?"

Her eyes widen at his interruption and soften simultaneously. "Thank you, Finn."

"I mean it, though. Like, I wish I could paint because you're the—" It hits him, suddenly, the itching in his palms circling on his knees. "I've gotta go, Rach."

"Where?" He's standing, collecting his belongings, and with a firm kiss on her head, leaves.

_xi_.

He's looking for someone to talk to, as he always is when he's stuck on a verse and searching for a muse. And of course his eyes land right on _Rachel_, head leaning against the wall, sidled up in the corner. She's got a bottle of Blue Moon in front of her, dark eyes downcast, and he finds himself standing in front of her before he even really registers that he's moving.

"Hey," he says softly, easing into the chair in front of her. "Haven't seen you in a while." Months, really, through April's quiet slip into May and May's grand finale resulting in eighty-degree weather spanning through June, it's just before the fourth of July, now, and he hasn't seen her since that day in the coffee shop.

This feeling scares him, the thrumming singing jumping in his chest that a part of him understands but the rest is too terrified to even register its presence. He's a bit of a mess, really. She doesn't look up, pen scribbling furiously across the ivory colored pages. Her necklace is gone, just bare collarbone beneath a loose tank top. "Rach?"

Her head snaps up, a bit of a smile tugging the corners of her lips. "Hi."

"Where have you been?" His fingers find hers.

"Around." He isn't used to her being so distant, the clouds blocking the sunshine of her eyes. He misses her bright eyes, warm smile. "You haven't called."

"Nor have you," he reminds her, half-smiling.

"I've missed you," she sighs, a little resigned, and _god_, he's missed her too. She smiles, now, lips stretching rose pink thin, tight over her teeth.

"I've really missed you." He glances around. "Wanna head to my place?"

She nods, gathers her things into her bag, and, looping her arm through his, walks with him. "I dated that boy I told you about. He cheated on me."

Finn knows that feeling. He squeezes her wrist. "I'm sorry. He doesn't know what he's missing."

"Thanks." She's a little caustic, a little biting, and he can't help but laugh. "Don't _laugh_ at me! I am heartbroken."

"Did you love him?" They're at his apartment, now, pushing through the door, hands linked instead of arms. He sits on his couch, air conditioning pushed on high, and she curls beside him, sticky skin brushing against his.

"No."

"My ex cheated on me."

"Is that why you refuse to feel?"

"Why I—what?"

"Refuse to feel," she responds, yawning nonchalantly. "Finn, come on. You never tell me how you're feeling—maybe it isn't that you refuse to feel, but you refuse to recognize what you feel. Who do you love, Finn?" She scoots closer to him, hand pressed against his chest.

You, he wants to say. You, he wants to shout, and kiss her until they can't breathe, but he simply shrugs. "I dunno, Rach, you try being told you were a father for six months and finally being told you weren't the dad, after you paid hospital bills, bought maternity clothes—"

"Finn," she murmurs, arms winding around his neck.

"I loved that kid, y'know? And—and when I learned she wasn't mine, I lost myself, nearly. Then I found music."

She smiles and runs her fingers through his hair, repeats the question, "Who do you love?" and "Where is your heart?"

With her, of course, is where his heart is. That realization that settled so long ago explodes in his stomach, bursting around like fireworks that spark up his esophagus, electric tics zooming along his tongue, and he has to clamp his lips together to stop his insight from bubbling out of his mouth.

He's in love with her, of course. _Of course_. He smiles tenderly at her, hugging his chest, burrowing a little into the crook of his neck. He's read so much about love and is ashamed at his intelligence levels for not picking this up sooner. He really is oblivious.

Now, of course, his dilemma is how to tell her. Or rather whether to tell her at all?

_xii_.

He likes libraries, especially this one, with gothic architecture and high ceilings and floor upon floor filled with books. Likes the silence, too, from floor to floor, and one corner in particular is so silent he nearly forgets he's in a library at all. And, on days like today, the air conditioning provides him temporary relief from the oven his apartment has turned into as July sinks into humid summer weather.

Today, he's got Plato's _Symposium_ spread across his lap, fingers tracing over the black standard text, heart thrumming anxiously. He doesn't give much merit to the whole soul mates bullshit, but this whole two halves thing is eerily familiar. His eyes slip closed, thinks of Rachel, a smile tugs at his lips as his heart beats two times quicker at the simple thought of her. There's a reason they were so compatible when they met, how sliding into a friendship (a little _more_ than that) was so easy, like breathing, and he sort of hates himself for realizing that he and Rachel, they're soul mates—or whatever.

He never pictured himself becoming so…mainstream.

_xiii_.

He finds himself at her house, of course, as night sweeps across the city. Briefly, he considers life in the country, when night quiets the world with its dark overcoat, but quickly shakes that thought from his mind. He loves the city. He can never imagine leaving.

She pulls open the door, a soft look in her eyes. She's wearing a familiar floral dress that he recognizes from the day he first met her, white socks pulled halfway up her calves. "Hi," she says quietly.

"You okay?" She nods. "Are you…busy?"

"Kind of." A half smile, and then she steps aside to let him into the narrow hallway.

"What's going on?" He follows her into the kitchen, where a somewhat familiar guy sits at her kitchen table, typing away on a Macbook Air. He's got curl hair, glasses, wearing some plaid shirt he probably thinks makes him look cool. "Rach?"

"This is my friend, Blaine," she introduces, tugging a worried bottom lip between her teeth.

"Hello, _Blaine_," Finn greets, a little caustically, and Finn recognizes him as that guy in the coffee shop, months ago. Idly, he wonders if she's dating him.

"Finn, come upstairs, I got these new shoes I want to show you!"

He couldn't care less about her shoes, to be honest, but likes her fingers sliding into his a she runs up the carpeted steps, towing him behind her. Her room is a mess, three melted candles on her dresser; one lit dripping wax onto the wood surface. He blows it out—fire safety, and all that.

She's got records and books and clothes tossed about, three blankets half on the bed, and it's the dead of summer, why does she have so many blankets? "Rach?"

"What was that?"

Okay, so he was a little rude. "Sorry," he says, smiling to show his dimples to soften the hard shell she's put up.

"Why do you do that?" He knows she doesn't want an answer. He doesn't know how to tell her he loves her, anyway. Instead he puts his hand on her cheek and swipes his thumb across her bottom lip.

He doesn't tell her he thinks she's the prettiest girl in the world, or that he's got three or four songs inspired by her sitting in a journal at home. "The air conditioning at my apartment's out."

Whatever gloom from earlier has all but dissipated, and she beams, "Want to sleepover?"

Of course he does.

Blaine leaves around midnight, and he lies in Rachel's bed listening to her iPod as she showers. It's cold in the apartment, quilt clutched to his chin as he shuffles through her music and nearly chokes. _ABBA_?

"Don't make fun of me," she warns, entering the bedroom, towel wrapped 'round her head. She crawls into bed moments later, a little uncertain as she tucks herself into his body. They've never done this before, never laid beside one another with their bodies curved together and he really likes it, likes how he can feel her hipbone against his, feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

They're sharing headphones, now, some acoustic song he doesn't care to learn the name of when she asks, "Finn?"

"Yeah, baby?" His eyes are closed—he's well on his way to asleep. He doesn't catch that slip, but she doesn't either.

"Who do you love?"

"Rachel."

"Do you—" She folds her hands atop his chest and balances her chin on them as his fingers trace her name and his name over and over into the small of her back. "Do you love me?"

This is the big moment. _Their_ big moment. Yes, he wants to say. Yes, his heart says yes his lungs say yes his fingers and toes and shins and hipbones and clavicle and shoulders say yes I love you of course I love you why are you asking even but he doesn't say anything. His heart thuds erratically but his brain halts all communication to his body parts as they all rejoice in loving Rachel Berry but the most important part his lips his tongues his teeth they don't say anything don't open to release all these feelings and he feels sick.

Rachel should kick him out. He doesn't answer her. She doesn't, just curls against him and falls asleep just as _I do love you I do_ flows through the earbuds and he doesn't really know why he sucks so much but sucks he does.

_xiv_.

Blaine becomes their third wheel. When he and Rachel go out, Blaine always always always joins them, be it at dinner or a concert at some bar or even a walk through the park and he's so upset because he's planning his big romantic gesture but she won't let him and she's the most frustrating woman in the world because she's trying to put distance between them but how can he want distance when she wears tank tops with moose and cats and Alice in Wonderland quotes.

One night he calls her at nine thirty knowing very well she'll be curled into her couch watching some low budget film on Netflix. "You alone?"

"_Why_?"

"Just wondering. We haven't had any Finn and Rachel time in weeks."

"_Come over_?"

He grins. "Be right there."

_xv_.

She's wearing a thin cardigan and it's still cool in her apartment even as the summer weather fades out. She likes it cold she tells him as he falls onto the couch beside her. He knows what she's going to ask as soon as she turns her face to his, smiling slightly. "Where's your heart?"

It's like she knows what he's going to say, secret smile tugging on her lips as he places his hand over her heart. "Here."

Her smile glows and then ebbs just as quickly as her eyelids flutter, hand curling on the back of his neck as she draws his mouth against hers. It's different from their other kisses, especially as of late, it's probing and learning and rediscovering one another all over again and she kisses him harder, fingers twining in his hair. He's never felt so much at one point like the earth disappears around him and he can't hear anything but the blood surging in his veins and her heart pounding against his and this must be what it feels like to fly, what finishing a thousand piece jigsaw must feel like everything fits where it should and he's floating hang gliding on Saturn's rings and landing on one of Jupiter's moons.

They part for air, breathing heavily, and he smiles real slowly at her and hugs her for the first time presses her against him and wraps his arms around her and squeezes her like a real proper hug not a half hug or a snuggle hug a real honest to god hug.

Later, lying in bed, she kisses him with swollen lips and asks, "Why did this take so long?"

"What do you mean, sugar?"

She smiles a little and smoothes her thumb over his eyebrow. "Why did you shut me out? You've loved me from the very first day."

He must have. He did. He's glad she knows. "You have, too." He hasn't said _I love you_ directly yet, he doesn't want the vulnerability to catch up with him even though he knows she loves him his tongue won't let him talk. "You know why I've shut you out."

"Your ex?"

"My ex."

"I'm not gonna hurt you like that," she promises gallantly. He laughs and kisses her forehead and doesn't deny her promises. "I mean, of course, we're going to hurt one another. Hurt is inevitable but I'm going to try and avoid breaking your heart. So long as you promise to avoid breaking mine."

He's glad he hasn't already. "You've got a deal."

She beams.

_xvi_.

He walks her home from the subway every night, now. She nearly got mugged once and is too terrified to walk alone, but too cheap for taxis and too impatient for a car in New York traffic. He likes seeing her everyday and likes the way she leans her head against his arm as they walk hand in hand, and likes the prolonged kisses on her doorstep that eventually end when her neighbor takes his dog for its nightly walk.

One night in September is rainy and he forgets his umbrella but she remembers her rain jacket but she's wearing brand new _suede heels_ so she hops onto his back and shoves the fuchsia heels into her purse. She laughs all the way home.

Her feet are bare against the concrete stoop as he leans down and kisses her, and she asks, very shyly, "Am I your girlfriend?"

He hates labels. "Yes."

She smiles and kisses him again. "Just confirming."

"Why?"

"Well, I got asked on a date and I told the guy I might have a boy—" He squeezes her sides, interrupting her and she dissolves into a fit of giggles.

Laughing, "I love you."

It's sudden and okay he didn't mean to do that but he did at the same time because what better time to tell her than in a rainstorm when her hair is curling from rain and her eyes are shiny happy because she loves the rain and a fuchsia heel sticks out but he doesn't tell her because she'll be upset and why bother ruining this moment because she's happier even when he tells her how he feels so happy she leaps into his arms and hugs him and whispers _I love you, too_ into his neck.

_xvii_.

Sometimes he hates loving her because it turns him into this dopey goofy guy who will literally do anything for her and sometimes he misses being a lone wolf but all he has to do is think about her and that desire vanishes _very_ quickly.

She asks him to move in on Halloween and a week later he's unpacking his things into her room, and it's all so adult now, bed in the center of the room, closet divided half and half, two drawers each, they even put up photos on the walls and this is the farthest he can handle it's all so domestic and he promised himself he'd never do this but for some reason Rachel dove right into his heart and changed all his promises and he doesn't even regret it not one bit.

He's sorting through films downstairs when he opens a cabinet he's never noticed before and he nearly keels over laughing. She hears this raucous laughter and wanders into the living room feet padding softly over the hardwood floor. She's wearing a big navy sweater and black leggings, maroon wool socks tugged up her legs. "_Finn_," she whines, sinking to the ground beside him.

"Baby, I know you're a big Broadway star and everything," he smiles slightly remembering her commanding the stage, voice powerful and strong and _perfect_, "but I didn't know you loved musicals _this _much."

"Finn!"

"I'm sorry," he laughs, squeezing her hips, "I _do_ have a soft spot for musicals myself. I wonder who influenced _that_."

She rolls her eyes and grabs his hand. "Well, Finn, you know what?"

"Hmm?"

"I think it's really weird that you play so many video games."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

"Wasn't it obvious?"

"No."

_xviii_.

In December he leaves for Los Angeles. Mike moved out there months ago with his girl, Tina, and on the phone, Mike had said they'd eloped or something, regardless, Finn wants to see his friend and takes off a whole week to see him, hoping that Rachel will join him, but she refuses. "Los Angeles _sucks_."

"No," he disagrees. "It's just another place, y'know?"

She glares so he kisses her again. "I'll see you next week, love."

"Fine."

"C'mon." Grumbling, she wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him, murmurs, "I love you," into his ear."

"Yeah, you, too. I love you, too."

And so he leaves, and L.A. isn't fucking terrible it's fucking awesome like this blank canvas city he can paint with his own words and guitar chords and he loves it out there. It's warm and sunny and beautiful and it sucks heading back to dreary gray New York but Mike offers him a job and that could work, he thinks, Rachel would _love_ L.A.

She does not love the idea of L.A., though, can't imagine leaving _her city_ and he sighs and agrees and calls Mike and turns it down even though it hurts to give up a dream—even a transient dream like this one.

He finds new dreams, of course, and that dream is marrying Rachel. So one night, just into the New Year, he holds her close before bed and asks her to marry him.

"Is this because of the whole L.A. debacle?"

"No."

"I love you, Finn. Isn't that enough?"

"Why won't you marry me?"

"Why do we _need_ to get married? Aren't you happy?"  
>"Yes."<p>

"Then—"

"Just _marry me_."

"We hate marriage," she mutters and begins to pace back and forth, feet bare on the linoleum in the kitchen, lights dim and her hair is getting long, brushing nearly against the small of her back, and he pulls her close, presses her against him in the dim kitchen and kisses her. "We make fun of married people!"

"Let's make fun of ourselves."

"Finn."

He kisses her again. "I know you want to get married."

"No you don't."

"Yes you do, you want to get married to me and you want to have kids with me and you know how I know that?"

"No."

"We're soul mates, Rachel."

"So?"

"If we weren't meant to be, it wouldn't feel so right. Let's stay in New York. Los Angeles was a brief fever dream. Too dry."

"You're just trying to get me to marry you." She pulls away, heads up the stairs, and closes the case.

_xix_.

February is cold and blustery and he goes to Los Angeles again for a weekend visit to see Mike. Rachel waits for him in the airport, fingers clasped beneath her chin as she waits and she grins the prettiest smile as he rides down the escalator, catches her seamlessly when she flings herself into his arms when he's on steady ground. "How was Los Angeles?"

He smiles. "Fucking sucked."

"I love you."

"Will you marry me?" He presses a ring box into the pocket of her big sweater, falling off her bare shoulder. "Baby, where's your coat?"

"Shh," she murmurs, fingers opening the box and running along the diamonds on the white gold band. "Are you sure this isn't because of Los Angeles?"

"Rach, listen, Los Angeles is great if you want to live in Los Angeles. But I—I want to live in New York, with _you_, and maybe with a mini-you in the future?"

She laughs and hands him the box. "Well?" He lifts an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to put that pretty ring on my finger?"

_xx_.

Later, much later, after the wedding and reception and vacation and awards and promotions and scares, he curves around her in their bed, white comforter around their shoulders, and she asks, pressing his hand onto her stomach. "Where is your heart?"  
>"You know that answer, baby girl."<p>

She smiles and kisses him. "Tell me."

Sighing, he presses his other hand against her heart, the other stilling against their baby, who kicks gently beneath his hand. "My heart is here."

* * *

><p><strong>um as always dedicated to rachel! review pls!<strong>


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